


Ink and Paint

by PromptBomb



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Drinking to Cope, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:00:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromptBomb/pseuds/PromptBomb
Summary: You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven't quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door.





	1. Chapter 1

It was the silence that really bugged you about working the graveyard shift.

When you had apprenticed under your uncle back home at his parlor there was rarely a dull moment to be had. Old timers coming in for touch ups usually had great stories to tell, occasionally you’d see a couple get into a heated argument over matching designs, there were even times when business was slow so your uncle would pull out his guitar and have a small jam session. It was the life flowing through his parlor that inspired you to take your art seriously and become a tattooer.

So when you came to Los Santos, fresh off the bus with bright eyes and portfolio in hand, you were somewhat discouraged when you found few openings and fewer owners wanting to take a chance on a no-name artist from the sticks. The money your uncle had loaned you dried up quickly and you found yourself forced into a parade of entry level jobs that kept you afloat as you continued to comb through every dark alley with a neon sign that flickered Tattoo. That’s when you found Pandemonium, the darkest of dives located between a disco tech warehouse club and a late night dry cleaner that, you were almost positive, was the front for some money laundering scheme.

Phil, the guy who ran the place, was hesitant on hiring you. You were sure that when he offered you the graveyard shift that he meant it more as a throw away offer. You’d be working alone and if anything went wrong it would take the cops about thirty minutes to get there. You didn’t care about the danger, not if it got you a chair. So with the promise that, if you did well they might be able to find a place for you in the day, you began your tenure as a pseudo night guard for Pandemonium Ink.

For the most part, it was pretty...unfulfilling. During the week the streets were like a ghost town and you found yourself marathoning cooking shows in some attempt to offset your hunger for a real meal. One could only live on take-out and ramen noodles for so long. The weekends didn’t offer much more in the way of clientele. Sure, you’d get the occasional roaming flock of beach bros stumbling down from the disco tech, bursting into the door so one of their friends could get a fifty dollar flash tattoo. You should be grateful but by the end of it, between having to almost lay on top of them to get them to sit still and their friends howling in the background, you’d wish for the silence that usually drove you crazy.

Most nights you’d think about giving up. You knew if you went home you could work for you uncle no problem. There was no shame in failing and maybe, after a few years and a nice cushion of money and a hefty portfolio, you could try again. But your pride kept you there, sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and dreaming of the day you’d see your own art there on the pages.

As fate may have it you were having one of these internal conversations on a night that you first met the infamous Vagabond.

The door opening made its usually broken down and thirsty for oil sound, a trainwreck of a noise that you had become accustomed to by this point. You didn’t even look up from your magazine as you heard the slow shuffle of footsteps making their way in.

“Hey.” Your greeting was...less than enthusiastic. Already you caught the light scent of liquor; perfect, nothing you liked better than inking a drunk. Even as you half-assed pointed to the wall, where several flash tattoos were hanging, you were already thinking up some excuse to get out of dealing with it tonight. “Everything on the wall is fifty. Words are five a letter. Anything else you’ll have to-” As you looked up your words came to a pause, catching sight of the man that had walked in. He looked like hell; long hair falling out of a loose and drooping pony-tail, clothing dirty and torn up as if he had just walked away from some vicious street fight. You thought for a moment that he may have been bleeding but on closer inspection, and noticing a smudge on the sleeve of his jacket, it appeared that his face had been painted.

Your lips thin, what was up with this guy? Sometimes you had to deal with addicts that stumbled in blitz out of their mind, it was one of the reasons you kept a baseball bat under the counter, just in case things turned violent. Aside from smelling like a brewery he didn’t seem the sorts to fly off the handle suddenly, he even moved as if he was completely sober. “Hey man.” you call again, trying to get his attention, “You ok? You need to use the phone or something?”

He glanced at you, blue eyes bloodshot but focused. The look on his face made it appear that he hadn’t slept in days. “I want a tattoo.”

“Welp, you’re in luck.” You reply while standing, clapping your hands across your thighs as if you were dusting them clean. “We do, indeed, do tattoos here.” No response. Given his appearance it was probably a bad idea to try and make things humorous, so you opted to move the conversation along, “What are you thinking?”

"Roses."

Before you can stop yourself, you snort. It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t what you were expecting. His eyes narrowed, though, clearly annoyed. “Sorry.” You cough and shove your hands deep into your pockets, “Just not...something I imagined you would- right. Roses.” You can feel the heat in your face as you continue to make a fool of yourself. So again you motion to the flash art, at least to divert his hard stare away, “There are several different options, layouts. We can do whatever color you want-”

"Is that all you can do, just copy and paste?"  You probably deserved that. Still, it didn’t stop you from shooting daggers at his back as he inspected the wall. "I was thinking something more personal."

“I can do original pieces!” He lifts a brow as your eager reply send you shifting quickly through the stacks of portfolios on the table until you find yours, thrusting it into his hands. You can’t even remember that last time someone looked at your original works. “I mean, there's usually a consultation. We sit down, I get an idea what you're wanting-” He sits and you find yourself holding your breath as he begins to flip through your folder. His listless expression is torturous and you begin to talk again if just to end the awkward build up of silence. “So, why roses if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I had a friend.” There is a slight crack to his voice, a tightening of his jaw that you do not miss. “They were sort of his things. I just thought I’d get something to remember him by.” He comes to the end of your portfolio and gives it a quick flip through once more. “You drew everything in here?”

You nod to which he puckers his lips in some sort of sign of approval. “So, this is sort of like what, a memorial thing?”

“You could say that, yeah.” He replies as he tosses your portfolio back onto the stack. “I’ve never had a tattoo before but this just...it’s something I want to do.”

Virgin skin. Looking him over you doubt the pain would be a problem, though you’ve seen grown ass men cry like babies when getting inked before. But he seemed to be a sort of guy who could take it. Still, something doesn’t sit right with you, something you can’t quite put your finger on. “Can I offer you some advice?” No reply, yet the look he sends your way signals for you to continue. “Hold off on getting it.”

The look he gave you could have turned your blood to ice. His brows furrowed, “What?”

You try to convey sympathy; you sit near him to which he immediately puts distance between the two of you as if you had the plague. “Look, it’s just a bad idea to get something like this done when you’re not thinking clearly.”

“And how do you know that I’m not thinking clearly?” You can see him seething, his hands fist against the bend of his knees.

You continue, though, “What I mean to say is that, whatever is fueling this need, it deserves to be looked at with a clear head. Don’t take this the wrong way but I could smell the liquor on you when you walked in.” His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Doing something like this is...it's special. It should mean something to you, yeah? So maybe don't make a decision on it when you're not thinking clearly. You owe it to your friend that much."

"Seems like bad business, refusing a customer."

He was probably right. If Phil was here right now you’d likely be following whoever you refused out the door. “Look nothing and no one is stopping you from getting up and going someplace else.” You stand and take on the short distance to reach behind the counter, grabbing your sketchbook and a pencil. “But if I didn’t care I wouldn’t ask you to wait. Just enough to sober up, yeah?”

He stands as you approach him again, hesitant as you hand him a piece of paper where you had jotted down your name and number. “What’s this?”

“In case you take my advice.”

He doesn’t take it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything else to you. You crumpled the paper up as he brushes past you, your shoulders making light contact before he set off through the door. You heave a short but heavy sigh. Oh well, you tried. Maybe you should have just given in and done whatever it was he wanted.

You shoot the ball of paper into the bin and return to your magazine, though you find you can’t concentrate on it clearly. The entire exchange stayed with you and you wondered if you could have said or done something different. Too late now, at least you wouldn’t have to see him again.

Or so you thought.


	2. Chapter 2

The ringing of your phone coincides with breaking news interrupting your binge of _San Andreas Diners and Dives_.

You mute the tv just as a headline crawls across the bottom of the screen, Del Perro Freeway Car Chase, but you’re more focused on your brother’s name flashing on the caller id and the gnawing you feel in your stomach as you reluctantly answer. The conversation follows a pretty standard format; a greeting, small talk about each other’s lives, until ultimately asking if you had talked to your mom recently. He knew that you hadn’t of course, he lived at home after all, and you were sure your mom was hovering around him, waiting for a chance to sneak herself into the conversation.

The relationship between you and your mother was strained, more so since you moved to Los Santos. She had never approved of your interest in art and had only tolerated you working for your uncle’s parlor because you had told her you were saving up money to enroll in online courses for Medical Coding. Boy, she angry when she found out the truth. She had done everything, save locking you in the basement, to keep you from leaving. You knew that she probably had good intentions, but she was absolutely lousy in trying to show them.

When you hear her asking your brother to hand her the phone you make an excuse that you’re late for work and hang up. At least it wasn’t completely untrue, you had agreed to take on a last-minute late shift at one of your part time jobs, a little sandwich stands named Ruth’s. It didn’t pay well but the tips were decent enough and the owner, a little old lady who the stand was named after, was very sweet, almost a pseudo mother figure, who never failed to send you home with a nice meal when she thought you were looking a little thin.

Ruth was there when you showed up, her short stature barely visible over the counter and no doubt recovering from the lunch rush. It looked like a good day, at least that’s what you gather by all the fry baskets and plastic cups left on the tables outside the stand. Instinctively, you bust them down, tossing the trash into the bin as you call out to Ruth to draw her attention away from a small black and white tv balanced on the counter. “What you watching there?”

“Oh, the news.” That figures, after all, the only channels she got on that antique were local. “They’re talking about that car chase from earlier.”

“I saw something about that when I was getting ready.” You say as you tie an apron around your waist, walking up to look over her shoulder at the grainy picture. You see the chief police talking at a podium with about a dozen microphones shoved into his face. He didn’t appear to be happy. “I take it that they didn’t catch them.”

She brushes you away with a playful flick of a towel, “What? Those morons? They couldn’t catch a cold.” You snicker and she continues. “You know, back when Augustus and I first came here it was such a lovely city.”

“When was that again?”

“Watch it,” she says and shakes a crooked finger at your playful rib. “You may not believe it but this used to be a city of dreams. You didn’t even have to lock your doors.”

You had heard it all before. Los Santos certainly had its problems with crime, but what big city didn’t? The pristine utopia that Ruth often described was no doubt tainted by nostalgia, but it was cute to watch her reminisce about old times. “I don’t know, a little dirt gives the city personality at least.”

“Personality? You think those delinquents running the streets have an inkling of personality? They’re just running around, causing chaos. At least the criminals in my day had some class and kept their dealings behind closed doors.”

“Well, I’m sure the cities finest will catch up with them next time,” you say as you catch a glimpse of one of the mugshots, a dapper looking mustached man, before she turns off the tv as a new customer walks up.

You opt to stay with Ruth until closing, helping her clean up and shut down just as it begins to get dark. You made enough with tips to splurge on a cab, it would give you some extra time to clean up before heading to Pandemonium. Yet, despite your earnest protest, Ruth splurges on the ride for you as thanks for coming in on short notice and for staying later than you expected to. The ride from Ruth’s to your apartment building is a short one and, along the way, you’re surprised when you get a call, from Pandemonium no less.

“Yo.” Bruno’s deep voice bellows as you answer. Bruno was one of the daytime artists and typically who you interacted with the most between shifts, a sort of changing of the guards as he chucked the keys at you and reminded you to lock up the safe. The fact that he was calling was extremely rare.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Yeah. Someone called and asked for yous. Yous specifically.” Your brow quirks, he sounds almost as surprised as you are. “Said yous guys had a consultation a couple weeks ago.”

Your mind races through your memory like a Rolodex, trying to remember. A couple weeks ago? A consultation? Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except- “Oooh. Huh.”

"What’s that?” Bruno asks.

“Nothing. Just, this one guy did come in but we...we couldn’t come to an agreement. It wasn’t even that much of a consultation.”

“Well, if it’s the same guy yous must have made some sort of impression. Said he was coming by tonight.” Great. You hadn’t really thought about that awkward encounter since it had happened. With the way he stormed out you just assumed that was the end of it. “Yous remember what he wanted, yeah?”

“I think so, yeah. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll try to make it in a little earlier to set up.” Bruno grumbles a farewell and your conversation ends a few minutes shy of the cab pulling up to your apartments.

A quick shower and a change of clothes and you’re sitting on the couch sketching. Roses. You remember that he wanted roses, a memorial for a friend. But that was all. You didn’t have a clue where he wanted the tattoo placed, what style, if he wanted color or black and gray. Maybe he didn’t want anything at all. You realize you could be doing a bunch of work for no reason if he simply wanted to come in and show you a tattoo he got someplace else as a means to remind you of your poor customer service. You don’t regret it, though. You still stand by what you said.

You toss your sketchbook on the table in defeat; there was no point in trying to draw something before you even knew what he wanted. You lay back on the couch and glance at the tv, seeing that they’re still talking about the care chase this morning, or at least that’s what you assume as you see the same dapper looking mustache man mugshot from earlier on screen morph into a full lineup of several wanted criminals.

That’s when you see him.

Disheveled hair, ripped jacket, a face completely smeared in paint, yet the recollection of those blue eyes washes over you like a bucket of ice water. Stunned, you roll off the couch and into the floor, nearly missing cracking your head against the table before managing to get to your feet to draw closer to the tv screen. There was no mistaking it. The man in the mugshot, labeled only with an alias of Vagabond, was the same man that you had talked to. The same man you had pissed off. The same man that was coming to see you tonight.

“Shiiiiit.”

Logic told you that no one would call ahead to let you know they were coming if they intended to do you harm. At least that’s what you had to tell yourself in some way of psyching yourself up to go to work. You no sooner get through the door before Bruno and a couple of other artists are on their way out. If you didn’t think Bruno would laugh in your face if you asked him to stay you might have asked. Fat chance he’d be of any help if things turned sour. Even if he believed you he’d be more likely to call the cops and the thought of getting in any deeper than what you already were was none too appealing.

So you settle on running business as usual. If anything the element of surprise was off the table and if you felt threatened, well, that’s what the baseball bat was for. Still, the waiting game had your stomach in knots. You had no idea when the Vagabond was going to show up, or what mood he would be in for that matter. You had to admire his moxie, though; instead of laying low after a high profile car chase he’s out, living like it was just an everyday occurrence. Well, you suppose it could easily be madness as much as it could be moxie.

The hours tick away and you actually have to shake yourself awake when you hear the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive feedback! Sorry this is more of a transition chapter. I promise there will be Vagabond a plenty next time.


	3. Chapter 3

You weren’t entirely sure what to expect, but it probably wasn’t this.

There was a chance you had a skewed idea of how we would look given his criminal behavior, not to mention having met him the last time. Disheveled and dirty with stone cold eyes and an expression that could turn from calm to scary at the flick of the switch. But the man that stood before you this evening looked utterly...pedestrian. He was much more cleaned up from the last time you met, and boy did he clean up well. Beneath all that sweat and paint was an almost charmingly handsome face.You now realized how he was able to get around so easily despite being one of the city’s most wanted. Dressed in a loose fitting t-shirt and blue jeans, hair worked into a slightly messy bun, he could be any sort of average person walking the streets.

With his hands shoved into his pockets, he approached you, an almost timid expression cracking into an uneasy half-smile. “Hey.”

Your brows lift and you give him a look over once more, just to make sure you weren’t fooling yourself. “Hey, yourself.” You feel like you should be more at ease. He seems to be in a much better mood than the other night. But so far this encounter felt a lot more awkward having figured out who he was. “They told me you called ahead and said you were coming in.”

His stance shifts and he runs a hand along the top of his head, loosening dozens of small strands of hair from his bun and sending them into his face. “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were here so I could...apologize.”

Apologize?

“Oh!” your voice nearly cracks, burdened by your own surprise. Having been so caught up in finding out who he was you neglected to run through a scenario like this. “No, you don’t need to do that, not at all.” Your forced laughter seems nervous but he seems not to notice as you continue, thank goodness. “Honestly, I should be apologizing to you. It’s not really my place to tell people what they should or shouldn’t do.”

He interrupts before you can say anymore, “No, you were right. My mind wasn’t in the best of places the other night. If I had gone anywhere else I’d probably be stuck with something I don’t want.” His half smile widens. For such a dangerous man he was incredibly sweet. “If anything you should feel commended on keeping someone from doing something they might regret. I think it shows you have real respect for your craft. I admire that.”

You feel warmth rises to your cheeks. This was not how you imagined this conversation to turn out, and had not prepared for it in the slightest. It truly was night and day between the man you had imagined to be walking through the door and the man who stood before you now. You almost feel bad that you had been running simulations about beating him down with a baseball bat now. “Thank you. If it means anything, I thought it was amazing that you wanted to get something for your friend. After all, you’re going to wear it forever, so it should mean something, yeah?” A glistening comes to his eyes and you realize that the subject was still fresh, despite how well put together he seemed tonight. “So, roses, right?”

His gaze follows you as you come around the counter, sketchbook already in hand and turned to the first of several sketches you had prepared. “You remember that much?”

“Well,” you smile and hand him the book as you walk the both of you towards the sitting area. “You’d be surprised the lasting impressing you leave on someone.” After he casts you a strange look you quickly add, “When you’re angry at them, I mean.”

Silence. Oh man, things had been going so well up to this point. And then he begins to chuckle, catching you completely off guard once again. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before actually.” You breathe a slight sigh of relief and when another bout of silence comes up as he overlooks your sketches you’re much less nervous. “There are...nice.”

“Nice?” The tone of his voice lets you know that he’s being sincere, however, “But it’s not what you’re wanting.” He appears apologetic but you’re not mad. You hadn’t really known what he wanted anyway and at least, now, you knew what he didn’t want. “That’s ok. That’s why we do these consultations. So let’s start fresh.” You offer him a smile and hold out your hand for your sketchbook, which he delivers. You flip through the sketches until you come to a clean page. “Maybe we can start by getting all the technical stuff out of the way, like finding out where you want to put it.”

“I was thinking here if that’s alright.” You watch as his hand comes to his chest, resting over his heart. It’s plainly obvious that this friend meant a lot to him.

“That’s great.” You nod to confirm his choice. “It’s actually a pretty good place for a first tattoo.” It’ll also offer you a fairly large canvas. “Did you have any idea what sort of style you wanted?”

“Not really.” If you had a nickel for every time someone said that. It wasn’t so uncommon for someone to come in with a general idea. That why they had the flash art on the wall. If anything it gave the customer a reference of what they might want. You’re about to suggest for him to look over the wall when he speaks up. “Although, when I was looking through your portfolio the other night there was something that caught my eye. It looked a lot like a painting.”

Mentally, you begin to flip through the pages of your portfolio, a careful and handpick selection of your best work when you were an apprentice. You recalled a piece that you had done just before you had left for Los Santos, a bluejay in watercolors. You fish the physical copy of your portfolio out of the pile and find it, not wanting to assume. “This one?” You ask as you show him.

He reaches for the book and begins to nod, looking over the piece once again. “Yes! That’s it. That’s the one.” His hand comes to rest on the page and again you see his eyes begin to swell with pain. “I don’t know why but there was something about this one I liked best.”

“Believe it or not that was a memorial piece as well.” He looks up at you as you continue, “A man came in one day at the place I apprenticed at. He had just lost his wife after a long illness and just wanted something to keep with him that always reminded him of her.” You smile softly, it was a good memory despite being so sad. “He told me she loved to bird watch. Even when she was sick in bed she would look out the window and watch the birds. When she died he said he remember there was a blue jay sitting on the windowsill that she usually looked out of. He felt like it was a sign.”

“He told you all that? Seems kind of personal.”

You offer him a shrug, “Sometimes people want to talk about the reason they’re getting a tattoo. I think it can be therapeutic.” It’s apparent that’s not something he wants to talk about. You suppose, given his profession, maybe he can’t. “But that’s just some people. Every experience is different. For instance, you look pretty tough, but you might cry.”

A change of subject seems to pull him out of the somberness of the conversation and he chuckles once again, “I doubt that. I have a pretty high threshold for pain.”

“Ooh, that’s what they all say.” You threaten with a grin. “Alright, so, colors?”

“I like what you did with the blue jay, to be honest.”

“We can do blue roses.” You tell him. “Actually, I think that would be really fitting. Blue roses symbolize immortality, and you are sort of immortalizing your friend forever in your skin.”

He appears to be pleased with this, “Sounds perfect. When do we start?”

Already you have several ideas swarming in your mind, you almost want to skip the sketching phase and go straight to tattooing. In all the excitement of getting to do your own work you had completely forgotten about being afraid of him early, in fact, you had forgotten about him being a criminal altogether. Still, it was best not rush so quickly, “I can work on some sketches and we can begin as early as tomorrow night if I come up with something you like.”

“I have no doubt you’ll come up with something great.” You feel yourself blush again and he smiles, seemingly noticing it this time around.

The two of you stand and you make your way to the counter again, pulling out a large scheduling book. Your ledger so far had been empty. “Alright, I just need to get a little personal information, like name and number.”

He seems apprehensive and you realize that he might not want anyone to have that sort of information, whether he knew that you knew who he was or not. “How about I just give you my number and you can put me down as Ryan?”

You don’t argue with that, surprised that he’d offer that much. “Sure.” You hand him your sketchbook and watch as he scrawls his number across the corner of one of the pages. “I’d prefer you not call me unless it’s important though.”

“No problem.” You assure him. “Then, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow night, Ryan.”

He flicks his hand in a slight salute, “Until then.” And promptly walks out the door.

The rest of your shift at Pandemonium passes without incident, but for once you’re glad for the quiet. You begin to pour yourself into sketching, filling pages with roses and splashes of blue, trying to find that magical moment when everything seems to click together. You can’t explain why you suddenly feel so enveloped in this project. Perhaps it was because it was your first real piece since you came to the city. Perhaps it was simply because, after everything that had happened that one evening, Ryan still wanted you to be the one to ink him. You felt pride, maybe even a little bit of arrogance knowing that the feared Vagabond of Los Santos was soon to be wearing your work.

Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in the fantasy of it all you would have noticed the unmarked police car that was sitting outside Pandemonium when you left after you shift. 


End file.
